


Insecurities

by lockedin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Bottoming from the Top, Cunnilingus, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Riding, Unromantic, Vaginal Sex, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2013-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-04 13:14:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedin221b/pseuds/lockedin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock’s slept with everyone on the team except her. Sally wanted to know why, but she's not sure if she likes the answer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Insecurities

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ficwriter103](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficwriter103/gifts).



> For Cat, who gave me this prompt:
>
>> He’s slept with everyone on the team except her. She wonders why. He gives her the answer
> 
> Marking mild dub-con because of the alcohol.
> 
> Also yeah I'm such a nooblet at writing lady sexytimes. It's sad really. Should write more lady sexytimes. Maybe with only ladies.
> 
> NB: I kept accidentally switching to past tense because that's what I usually write in. I hope I caught all of the slips, but feel free to point any out that I missed! Sorry in advance.
> 
> Oh, and it's only implied, but this is pre-John. Idk how long just John's not in the picture I didn't want to deal with flatmate dynamics. I also like the idea of Sherlock and Sally having a history by the time John shows up.

Sally’s jaw drops, and it isn’t figuratively. She gapes at the man sitting across from her at a small table in a corner of the pub. “Anderson?” She’s baffled. More than baffled. “You’ve slept with Anderson?”

“As have you,” Sherlock says with complete nonchalance.

“You hate Anderson.”

Sherlock’s mouth curls into an unnatural sort of grin. “But he’s such a good lay, isn’t he?”

“Well yeah—no, stop. Anderson’s not bi. Lestrade I get. He doesn’t miss a single pretty arse. But Anderson-”

Sherlock gives one of his exasperated sighs. “When will people stop viewing sexuality as finite? It’s a gradient, a multilayered one at that. No matter how one defines oneself, there is always—how should I put this—wiggle room.”

Sally pauses. She still can’t wrap her head around it. “But it’s Anderson.”

Sherlock shrugs and takes a drink. They’re almost through their second round. “Next?”

Sally’s run out of names, though. There’s probably more, but no one Sally knows Sherlock’s worked with regularly at the Yard. She crosses her arms and leans back. “Donovan.”

Sherlock’s eyebrow curves elegantly upward. “I would hope you know the answer to that, unless you’re implying something less than consensual.”

“I want to know why. You’ve slept with at least eight people at the Yard, all of whom you’ve known as long as or less time than you’ve known me.”

“Except Lestrade.”

“Fine, except Lestrade. That’s still seven people.”

“Who aren’t you.”

“So why?”

Sherlock evens out their pints with the rest of what’s in the pitcher. “I don’t find you attractive.”

“Bollocks.”

“You’re not my type.”

“Again I say, bollocks.”

“You suggest you know my type?”

Sally takes a long draught and slams the empty pint down. “Antagonistic. Aggravating. People who rub you the wrong way.”

Sherlock smirks. “Oh, I can assure you, all eight of those individuals have rubbed me quite the right way.”

“You like when you piss people off.”

“I piss everyone off.”

“Alright, people who you get to prove to that you’re better than them. You like the challenge. You like it when people initially like you, think you’re amazing, and you like to push them over until they loathe you and still can’t deny your brilliance. They hate that they can’t deny it, and you love that.”

“See? You aren’t as stupid as you look.” Sherlock stands, places his share of the tab on the table, pulls on his coat and scarf, and makes for the exit.

It takes Sally a moment to register that he’s left in the middle of the conversation. She fumbles with her money before chasing after him. She catches him right outside the pub, presumably waiting to hail a cab. “You can’t just leave it there!”

“Why not? You’ve pinpointed ‘my type’ precisely.” He doesn’t even bother looking at her.

“So how is it I don’t fit that description?”

He starts to raise his arm for a cab, but she grabs it and yanks it down. Finally he turns to her. He isn’t smiling anymore. He’s looking at her with a startlingly sober gaze, considering he’s downed an entire pitcher over the course of the last hour. “You don’t loathe me.”

“Like hell I don’t.”

“Oh, I piss you off. I infuriate you. There’s no denying that. At the end of the day, though, you don’t go to bed abhorring me.” He leans close until he can whisper in her ear, “At the end of the day, the thought of me still gets you wet.”

Sally has trouble forming any coherent thought, let alone words, between what Sherlock’s just said and the alcohol buzzing through her. “Excuse me?” she finally snaps out. The delay weakens the effect, though.

Sherlock smiles and hails a cab. “Have a lovely night, sergeant.”

“No. No bloody way are you leaving it at that.” Sally shoves her way into the cab beside him before he can close the door.

He sits there scowling at her. When she refuses to get out, he reluctantly gives the cabbie his address. “This the exact reason,” Sherlock mutters, again not looking at her.

“What’s the exact reason?”

“The reason I don’t sleep with anyone who won’t still hate me in the morning.”

“You’re a sadistic fuck, aren’t you?”

“The only reason I’ve slept with any of those people—with anyone—is because it’s purely physical pleasure for both parties. No attachments. No risk of them mooning over me the next day, thinking it might be more. The only attraction is purely carnal.”

The air hitches briefly in Sally’s throat, but she swallows it down. “And you think I’m going to turn into some simpering fool if we sleep together?”

“I know it.”

“Why? Because I’m a woman?”

Sherlock lets out a bark of a laugh. “I was once as worried about Lestrade falling into that pit. I didn’t think he’d ever stop calling me brilliant and fantastic without the slightest hint of distain. It has nothing to do with your gender. It has everything to do with you. You can’t get past your little crush to see me for what I am.”

“A major dick?”

“I believe ‘sadistic fuck’ was the term.” They reach Baker Street, and Sally climbs out of the cab with Sherlock. He gives her another annoyed look, but she follows him all the way up to the stoop.

“Fuck me.”

Sherlock laughs. “Excuse me?”

“I’m not swooning over you, Sherlock. I’m not a pathetic little girl with a crush.”

“And demanding we sleep together is the way to prove this?”

This time, it’s Sally who raises an eyebrow. “You’re a scientist. How else do I disprove your theory?”

“It’s not a theory.”

“It is, and it’s wrong.”

“Your jealousy was quaint at the pub, but now it’s tiresome.”

“I’m not jealous,” Sally says, her voice utterly steady. She isn’t jealous. She’s past being jealous. “Maybe I was, back at the pub, but right now the only thing I’m desperate for is to prove you wrong.”

“By going after my cock.”

“What have you really got to lose? You get laid, end of story.”

“What I’ll get is your delusions of romance.”

Sally grins. “You know, I’m starting to think you’re afraid of being proved wrong.”

Sherlock visibly bristles. “I take back what I said about you not being as idiotic as you look.”

“I’m thinking I’m not.”

Sherlock unlocks the door to 221 and swings the door open. “Fine. You want to subject yourself to neurochemically induced delusions, be my guest. Let’s fuck.”

Sally makes a point to saunter inside and up the stairs. “Your place is a wreck.”

“And your opinion is so very important to me,” Sherlock says dryly as he hangs his things. “Bedroom’s that way.”

She doesn’t make a snide comment about romance. After all, that’s not what they’re here for. She hangs up her coat and walks through the wreck of a kitchen to the back hall. The bedroom, at least, is not a tip. It’s Spartan, though. The only thing hanging on the walls so far is a copy of the periodic table. In his bedroom.

Sally starts undressing, only to have Sherlock grab her wrists from behind and still them. He presses close and whispers against her neck, “Now, now, sergeant. No romance doesn’t preclude no foreplay. This is, after all, supposed to be enjoyable.” He lets go of one wrist and twirls her around with the other.

The room spins for a moment, but, as soon as she can focus again, she starts flicking open Sherlock’s shirt. His always too-tight shirt. He’s got her blouse open and is working on her bra when she forces him to stop. She eases his shirt off his shoulders and leans forward to kiss his collarbone. The shirt falls to the ground, and Sherlock catches her chin with his fingers.

He tilts her head up and kisses her. It’s hard and rough and she bites back, bruising his lips and hers with her return force. He unfastens her bra and slides it down her arms. He keeps kissing her, and so she keeps kissing back as they start on each other’s trousers. They only stop when they realise they still have their shoes on.

“Impressive,” he says, panting against her lips.

“Knew those lips of yours could do something other than deduce and piss people off.”

“Oh, they can do quite a bit more.”

They deal with their shoes, and their own pants while they’re at it. As soon as they’re both nude, Sherlock grabs Sally and practically tosses her onto the bed. He leans over her, craning his neck to kiss and bite at her neck, her collarbone. His hands grip her hips until his mouth reaches her breasts. As he lavishes her nipples with his tongue, his fingers move down to her thighs.

She arches her back into the pleasure, and she lets out an annoyed grunt when he stops abruptly. He beings his face level with hers. “How drunk are you?”

She gapes. “You’re worried about consent now? After our whole conversation?”

“You drank more than I did.”

Sally grabs his arms, bends her knee between his legs, and flips him onto his back. She climbs on top of him, straddling his waist with her thighs. “I had to go undercover once and drink a man under the table to get information out of him. No wire, so I had to remember everything he told me.”

“Did you?”

“Damn straight I did. I had a hangover for a week, but I got out without blowing my cover and with the information we needed. I can bloody well fuck you on a few pints.”

“Sorry, I don’t have a strap-on handy. You’ll have to settle for me fucking you.” He takes hold of her hips.

Sally snatches his hands and shoves them over his head. “You don’t need to be the one taking it to be the one who’s getting fucked.”

Still holding Sherlock’s arms above his head, she leans down and kisses him hard on the mouth before moving down. She marks up his neck as much as he marked hers, and continues to his nipples. She’s rougher than he was, using her teeth more, and leaves him with two smarting red nubs. She continues further, eventually having to let go of his arms for lack of reach. When she does, he digs his fingers into her hair.

“Condom,” she commands after laving his navel with her tongue.

He hurries to dig one out of the nightstand and rip open the package, and Sally secrets a grin behind the waterfall of her hair before looking up to take the condom from him.

She rolls it onto his cock, squeezing the base before letting go. “Anderson’s is bigger.”

Sherlock drops his head onto his pillow. “Christ, don’t tell me you’re a bloody size queen.”

“No,” she says with a grin. “You took it from him, though, didn’t you?”

“I happen to have a preference for ‘taking it’.” Sherlock tilts his head toward her. “Problem?”

“Give me another condom.”

He doesn’t ask questions, though he’s more collected about retrieving the second one. He also passes her a bottle of lube without her prompting. “I’m suddenly grateful you had a manicure yesterday,” he mutters.

“And you’re making me wish I wore false nails. Shut up already.”

“Wearing false nails in your line of work would be highly ill—ah!”

Sally grins as she runs her finger from bollocks to hole. She takes hold of Sherlock’s cock with the other hand and wraps her mouth around the head, sliding her tongue around the glans as she presses her finger into Sherlock. She moves her finger inside gradually, all the while working her mouth around the head of Sherlock’s cock and her hand on the shaft. When she finds his prostate, evident by a groan and the tensing of his body, she curls her finger against it and sucks in tandem.

“Christ!”

“I didn’t take you for a religious man, Sherlock.” She brushes his prostate a second time before pulling her finger out. She rolls off the condom and tosses it on the floor. She moves back to straddling Sherlock, but does so around his shoulders.

“What-”

“Got any scissors in here?” Sally opens the top drawer of the nightstand. There’s an obscene amount of condoms inside.

“Why? Going to cut it off?”

“Give me a reason to.” She holds a foil pack up between her fingers. “If you think you’re getting away without returning the favour, you can finish this little party by yourself.”

“Second drawer.”

As she cuts open the condom, she says, “You said your mouth could do more.” She presses the latex over his lips, drips on a little lube, and grins. “Now prove it.” She shifts up the bed until her thighs are on either side of his head.

He holds her thighs and lowers her onto his mouth. It doesn’t take him long to prove that his tongue is as talented as his lips. Sally grips the headboard as Sherlock moves his tongue slowly. Despite his admitted preference for men, he’s not inexperienced with women. Far from it. He teases each and every centimetre, with particular attention to her clit, occasionally adding his lips to the mix. He actually knows what he’s doing, and Sally’s trying hard not to squeeze his head with her knees. It doesn’t help that he’s massaging the insides of her thighs with his thumbs. Or, rather, it’s helping quite a lot.

“Stop,” she gasps. His tongue retreats and she sits back on his chest. “For a guy who likes to take it up the arse-”

Sherlock pulls the condom away from his mouth. “I have a great variety of experiences in my sexual repertoire.”

Sally snorts. “Repertoire? Really? That’s the word you’re going to use?”

“It seemed an adequate descriptor.”

“Sure it is.” She presses her hands against Sherlock’s chest and slides herself down his torso. “Ready, Mr. Repertoire?”

“I believe the state of my prick can answer that.”

Sally chuckles. She straddles his hips one again and lowers herself onto Sherlock’s cock. For a moment, all banter between them dissolves as they both sink into the feeling. Sherlock digs his fingers into her thighs. She feels the slight shift in his hips, but, before he can thrust, she rocks herself on his cock—hard. The groan she pulls out of Sherlock is its own kind of high. She starts moving, slower this time, building her rhythm. She splays her fingers across his chest and rolls her hips to her own rhythm.

She looks down at him with what is probably a salacious grin. “Going to do something with those hands besides leave bruises?”

He reacts quickly, moving one hand to her clit. The rhythm he uses doesn’t parallel her own, but it somehow manages to compliment it. Bloody musician. She moves faster, shifts the motions slightly, tries to throw him off, but every time he adapts in the span of a couple beats. He’s got her body figured, thumb to her clit, and she’s still doing most of the work. Well, she can use that in her favour. She builds pressure as much as speed, until Sherlock’s rhythm begins to falter.

Even the genius has trouble focusing, and it encourages Sally to fuck him harder, until he’s moaning and trying to hold it back and his finger, though still massaging her clit, has lost all sense of rhythm. She’s close, too, but she’ll be damned if she comes first. On a whim, she pinches his nipples and, with a particularly forceful roll of her hips, twists. He comes shouting, and she finally lets herself go, riding him through his orgasm and into her own.

Once she’s partly caught her breath, Sally lifts herself up enough for Sherlock to slide out of her. Then she lays back on his legs, still breathing hard. “Anderson was right.”

“About?”

“You are a good lay.” She pushes herself up on her elbows to see Sherlock’s stunned expression and breaks down in giggles. “You really believed I didn’t know that about you two? I’m his best mate, of course he told me. Christ, Sherlock. For a genius, you’re a real idiot.” She throws her leg over him and sits up. “So, now I leave, right?”

“That’s up to you,” Sherlock says with a yawn. He pulls off the condom and ties it off, dropping it on the floor with the others to be dealt with later. “Some go right away. Some sleep here. I really don’t care.”

“Thank god. I’m exhausted.” Sally throws back the covers and lays down, bunching one of Sherlock’s pillows under her head.

Sherlock gets up only to turn off the lights. When he climbs back into bed, it’s with the silhouette of his back to Sally.

“Do you spoon?”

“No.”

“Alright.” She closes her eyes and falls asleep smiling.

 

Sally wakes around dawn, despite it being Saturday. It was one of the downsides of having a keen internal clock. She wakes with a weight across her chest, and another over her legs. Sherlock is sound asleep beside her, his limbs splayed across her.

“Doesn’t spoon my arse,” Sally mutters as she pries him off. She collects her clothes quietly and edges out of the room. The loo is right next to the bedroom, so she slips inside. After she pisses, she washes her hands and face, borrows a little of Sherlock’s toothpaste on her finger, and combs her fingers through her hair. She gives up on the last bit and digs a hair tie from her trousers and pulls it back. As she’s getting dressed, there’s a knock on the bathroom door. “Yeah?”

Sherlock opens it. He’s still naked, and leans against the doorframe. “Still here?”

“Only just.” She finishes pulling on the straps of her bra and pulls up her trousers. She notices Sherlock is still standing there, still watching her. “What?”

“Nothing.” He turns around and walks back to the bedroom, not bothering to close any doors.

Sally follows him, her blouse hanging open. She starts digging around for her socks and shoes. “Are you always this moody after sex?”

He ignores her question and asks his own, “Are you hungry?”

“I don’t want anything that comes out of that kitchen, but thanks.”

“I was actually thinking of going out.”

Sally pauses in buttoning her blouse. She looks at Sherlock, who is supine in the middle of the bed, fingertips pressed together and up under his chin in that peculiar way. “You didn’t offer Anderson breakfast.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I hate Anderson.”

“Right, and you’re just in love with me.” She resumes closing up her blouse, but stops after one button when there’s no retort. “Oh fuck.”

Sherlock grimaces. He sits up and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. “It wasn’t you I was worried about.”

Sally rubs her hands down her face. “You’re saying you didn’t want to fuck me because you have feelings for me?”

“I usually try to avoid complications.”

“What does that even mean?”

“I had no intention of courting you. We have, ultimately, a working relationship. Intimate relationships are ones I usually like to avoid. I prefer to be married to my work.”

Sally crosses her arms. “But?”

Sherlock looks up at her, and some of his usual cynicism is missing. “I believe last night is the obvious ‘but.’”

“We fucked. You said yourself you didn’t want it to be anything more than that.”

“I had hoped it wouldn’t be. However, even I am prone to miscalculations.”

Sally releases an abrupt laugh. “Calculations? Sherlock, people are more than calculations. God, you really don’t know how to woo people.” She finishes buttoning her blouse.

“Breakfast. Go to breakfast with me, that’s all I ask.”

Sally sighs. “Fine, buy me breakfast. And try not to make too much of an arse of yourself.”

Sherlock’s expression lights up in a way Sally usually only sees when bodies are involved. It doesn’t fail to make her heart beat a little faster.


End file.
